


The Diner

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, M/M, PWP, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's having trouble keeping his mind on the job when Sam's way too damn distracting. (Also... plot twist).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diner

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to [cosmonaught](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/pseuds/cosmonaught) for the beta and [katstark](http://katstark.livejournal.com/) (LJ) for the much appreciated support and helpful suggestions!
> 
> If you're uncomfortable with surprises, check the End Notes for story spoilers.

_These aren’t his thoughts._

Objectively, he knows this. Knows that in the clear-headed light of day, he wouldn’t normally be attracted to the body sitting next to him. But _knowing_ and _being able to change it_ are two different things, and Dean’s body is reacting whether or not his brain is completely on-board with the plan.

There’s a distinctive, familiar heat radiating from the strong, tanned limbs, like Dean’s slept next to them for most of his life and put careful, curative hands on almost every available inch of skin. Again, he can feel the foreign memories and thoughts invading his own, but it feels so _real_ , this other life lived, that he can’t ever be completely certain that it isn’t his.

It’s intense, trying to fight against such strong memories. Dean knows every mole, every scar on the person next to him, has watched this body stretch out from baby fat to awkward, coltish limbs to strong, adult muscles. It’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without touching it somehow. Although that doesn’t feel so awkward since it’s touching him right back, knocking knees or shoulders or just patting his leg absently with large hands. Like some impulse in the back of his brain is compelled to not let more than five minutes pass without some kind of physical reassurance of proximity.

When Dean’s hand lands heavy and warm on the guy’s shoulder for a few seconds, fingers flexing against the soft collar of his shirt and knuckles brushing the edges of dark, silky hair, the man’s face turns towards him to give him a light, confused look accompanied by a brief flash of dimples and an inquisitive smile. Quickly, Dean’s hand comes down and he tries to mentally shake himself back to normal, taking a large bite out of his burger before making some throw-away remark about his lunch. The guy responds with a wry look and a short exhalation as he plunks his fork down in his salad, and that brief flicker of tension is soon forgotten as their natural companionship slides back into place.

He should just focus on the work at hand and try to ignore this, focus on the thrill he gets from killing things, doing his job, righting the world. Not every aspect of the job is pleasant, but it has its moments. Times when the satisfaction of taking down another disgusting mother fucker bleeds warmth into his gut and he knows this is exactly where he wants to be. Times when they’ve successfully finished another job and the face next to him is grinning hard enough to make his dimples dig deep into his cheeks. Times when it’s difficult to fight the compulsion to grab the body next to him, slam it into the wall, and bite and kiss at those lips until they turn dark, bruise-red before shoving his tongue in so deep that it’ll be days before the taste of Dean fades from that wet, swollen mouth.

But this is hardly the time for those thoughts; not when they’re in the middle of a job. So he forces his eyes away from the way the guy’s hair brushes against the butter-soft, dipping curve of his neck and gets himself back into work-mode, pulling out his weapon and focusing on ridding the world of a few more pieces of ugly.

It’s really not his fault, however, that the guy looks like a damn piece of art when he’s handling a weapon and getting his hands dirty. That the hard, impassive expression on the man’s face as he smoothly points the gun and fires off a few rounds causes something carnal and reckless to grow tight in Dean’s chest. Or that that smirk the guy gives him—when their eyes meet after a good shot or when the beast-of-a-man leaps off the table and stops one of their targets from getting away—is knowing and wicked and dirty as fuck.

With the way Dean’s cock is straining against his pants just from the sight of that grin, he can’t even deny the obvious recognition of what this really is: _lust_.

When they’re finished, guts and blood smeared everywhere and satisfaction shining in both their eyes, they turn to each other, adrenaline cranked so high that the hazel of the other man’s eyes has disappeared behind the oil spill of his pupils, and he’s sure that his own green irises are just the same. And just when he decides to screw every reason they _shouldn’t_ do this and go in for the kill, the guy beats him to it; grips him by the back of the neck and hauls him in, crashing their mouths together. Teeth, tongue, and lips all clash in something hard and unforgiving and frantic, and _damn it_ , he doesn’t even care whose memories and thoughts these are anymore. All he knows is that he wants this— _needs_ this—and it’s been a long time coming.

He only gets one aborted attempt at a token protest, manages to pull back just long enough to offer a weak “ _But_ —” before his air’s cut off again and he can feel dry chuckles resonating against his lips.

“This is between you and me. Stop worrying about shit that doesn't matter,” the guy replies sternly before shoving him back and offering a dark, filthy smile. “And call me _Sam_.”

“ _Fuck._ Sam,” he replies in a gritting, helpless tone as the guy’s large hands slip down to palm Dean’s ass, pushing forward to let their hips grind together, and he can’t even choke down the groan that escapes as his head falls forward, tipping into Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s arms wrap around his shoulders while he grinds against Dean’s crotch, and the sensation skitters pleasure just beneath Dean’s skin, quickly turning him desperate as the stifling denim between becomes too thick a barrier, and he just _has_ know what Sam’s heated skin feels like pressed against his.

Coiled heat winds tighter and tighter in Dean’s gut until he grabs Sam by the arm and shoves him back onto a table, and Sam just lets him. Digs his shoulders back into the hard, slippery surface and widens his legs so Dean can fit inside; his hair fanned out behind the back of his head like a curling, dark halo while he looks for all the world like something ready to be ravaged. Something electric slips inside Dean’s veins, burning him up from the inside out as he realizes that Sam’s ready and willing to take whatever he wants to give him; is staring up at Dean with dark eyes turned trusting and submissive as he waits for Dean to decide how this goes down.

Lunging forward, he fumbles with Sam’s belt, metal clinking as he unlatches then immediately yanks Sam’s pants down before throwing up his knees and sliding a finger down to skate around the rosy circle offered up. While Dean’s hand gropes and slides teasingly, he leans forward to taste the smooth inside of Sam’s mouth again, tongue exploring the soft edges of Sam’s lips, the slick inside of his cheeks, the warm edge of his tongue. He wants nothing more than to devour the guy; get them closer than these limited physical bodies can accomplish on their own.

Sam’s hips start rocking into the finger that’s still teasing the edges of the pucker, but he refuses to go in just yet; is getting way too much satisfaction out of Sam’s wanton, frustrated hip rolls and flushed cheeks. He does, however, spare a moment to pull Sam’s shirt over his head so he can trail his mouth down, letting it catch against a nipple, the plump edge of his lower lips brushing back and forth until it pebbles as his hand still teasingly rims the edge of Sam’s hole.

When Dean’s mouth moves to the other nipple, rubbing it raw and hard and sensitive, Sam chokes back a low sound and grabs the back of Dean’s head, fingers digging into his hair and nails scratching the edge of his skull. “C’mon, Dean,” Sam pleads hoarsely, hips rocking insistently. “Know you’ve been waiting to get inside this ass for days now. Know you felt this the minute—the _second_ —we signed up for this damn job. Just do it. Do it before I get tired of waiting and bend _you_ over this table instead.”

Snorting, he answers, “S’not gonna feel so great, Sammy. Takin’ you dry’s gonna burn like a mother fucker. Sure you want me shoving in right now?”

He figures there’s a decent chance that Sam _wants_ the burn, welcomes the pain. Masochistic tendencies seem to go hand-in-hand with their kind of work, after all. Strong fingers grip Dean’s arms to haul him up, and their mouths meet in something animalistic and pure. “Yeah,” Sam growls against Dean’s mouth, and he can feel Sam’s mouth curve into a smile before he pulls away. “Hell yeah I want this _now_. But I could feel this storm brewing from miles away, Dean. Came prepared.” His hands motion downwards as a pleased grin brings those dimples back into play. “Check the side pocket.”

As Dean’s hands rifle through the jeans pooled on the floor, he finds the small bottle tucked inside and ducks his head to hide the too-big grin as he pops open the lid and coats his fingers with slickness.

“Boy scout,” he accuses, lips still quirked up as he leans down to slip a finger inside Sam while Sam’s eyes roll up and small, breathy grunts come out on each exhale. Long, thick arms flail out to try to grab at something, but they only end up knocking over ketchup bottles and napkin holders, and Dean leans down to pin down one of Sam’s arms using his free hand.

“Makin’ a mess,” he chides with a low laugh, twisting his fingers inside Sam until those slanted eyes clench tight and his back arches into Dean’s chest. Dean’s cock starts leaking against his zipper in earnest, so he briefly lets go of Sam’s arm to pop open the button, unzip the teeth, and kick off his pants, sighing in relief at finally releasing that pressure.

“Al—already made one,” Sam responds while his eyes zero in on where Dean’s boxers have been shoved down as well, obviously trying for flippant but his breathless tone making that distinction impossible. “Pretty sure this diner is done for. But _fuck_ , Dean. Watchin’ you work… I’ve been hard ever since you pulled out your gun. Need you in me _now_.”

Chuckling, he leans back in, grabbing one of Sam’s legs with one hand while his wet fingers steadily work in and out so he watch every nuance of pleasure and ache flash across Sam’s face, drink in every twitch and stutter. He catches Sam’s dazed, half-lidded eyes with his own as he growls out, “I’ve been hard since _Jericho_ , Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes burst wide open as red floods his cheeks, and Dean can feel the responding clench as Sam’s body squeezes in contraction— _fuck_. Sam’s so tight around his fingers, he can only imagine what it would feel like around his cock, and he has plans to find out _really_ soon, but he can’t help the urge to tease more color out of Sam’s face first.

“You like that?” he asks, leaning down to press his nose into the side of Sam’s cheek where sweat is already dripping down the side of his hairline. Dean’s lips drag up the soft hair as he smiles and adds in a lower, softer voice, “You like it when I call you _Sammy_ while I play with your ass?”

“ _God_ , Dean. _Shut up_ ,” Sam replies, voice as snappish as he can make it; cheeks still bright. He jerks his arm out of Dean’s grip and grabs onto Dean’s shoulders, pulling them closer, his intentions obvious even before he orders, “Just fuck me already.”

Part of him—and he knows _which_ part—wants to keep torturing Sam in that sibling-rivalry way where driving his brother crazy is both his job and favorite past time. But he also really needs to get inside Sam right-the-fuck-now, and he’s already been patient for way too long.

Using the rest of the lube coating his fingers, he slicks up his cock, moaning softly at the friction that feels so good but which he knows will be nothing compared to the heat and clench inside Sam. And when he hitches Sam’s legs up further, Sam reaches down to pull himself apart, holding himself open to let his pink hole fucking _gape_ at Dean, and he can’t get himself in Sam fast enough.

“ _Fuuuuuck_ ,” he breathes as he pushes in, the head of Dean’s cock engulfed by warm pressure, popping past the ring of muscles before he drives Sam harder into the plastic diner table that rocks and squeaks under his steady grind.

Small noises are grating up Sam’s throat, growing louder and higher as Dean’s cock pistons faster into Sam, like he’s trying to make up for all the years they _haven’t_ fucked. Sam twists and adjusts until Dean’s sliding inside him just right, making Sam fall back with a gasp, his head jerking in time with the snap of Dean’s hips.

Sam’s eyes are locked on the ceiling, his expression unfocused and overwhelmed, and he looks beautiful in a way that brings a strange ache to Dean’s chest, like he can’t understand why this has never happened before when it feels like something clicking into place; likes the edges of them were always meant to be pieced together. So he folds Sam up tighter, urging Sam up so their lips can meet, although Sam’s way too out of it to do more than open his mouth as Dean licks his way inside and sucks on Sam’s tongue, filling him up in every way he can.

When he pulls back, he can see Sam’s cock curving up his stomach, purple and swollen and fit to burst although Sam hasn’t made one move to touch it yet, has just let its heat slide against Dean’s stomach when they’ve been pushed up against each other. When Dean’s hand grips it, it blurts out pre-come like it had been starving for that touch. Sam moans loudly as Dean’s hand starts jacking up and down, moving his thumb up and around the head to press into the sensitive nerves there and pulling Sam with him as he slams more purposefully into Sam’s ass.

As the noises coming from Sam start to vaguely sound like stutters of Dean’s name, Dean’s hips begin to swivel and pound until his thighs tense up and then he’s gone for—coming inside Sam, gulping down air and twisting his hand until Sam’s right there with him. Come splashes against Dean’s chest as Sam flails and grabs at Dean’s arm, his hands squeezing tighter and tighter until his dick twitches empty, leaving behind a soreness in Dean’s arm that he’s sure will blossom into a hand-shaped bruise by morning.

Dean’s legs give out as they finish, and he drops to the floor, leaning against the side of the booth and tugging at Sam until the younger man slides down and collapses into Dean’s chest. Dean’s arm curls around Sam’s hips, and he can’t resist letting his hand slide down, fingers pressing down the line of Sam’s crack until they slip into the well-fucked, swollen hole. Sam shivers when Dean’s fingers prod in, and the wet, dirty squelch of Sam’s come-filled ass is enough to make Dean’s spent dick gives a valiant twitch that he unfortunately has absolutely no ability to follow through with right now.

“ _Stop it_ ,” Sam whines huskily when Dean’s thumb presses in, tugging against the rim and letting more of his come seep out and drip onto the floor.

Dean’s eyes crinkle in amusement, and he swipes his fingers around one last time before pulling out completely. “You ever see a more fucked up pair of brothers?” he comments wryly as he idly wipes the come and lube onto the front of his shirt.

Sam’s hand clamps down on Dean’s wrist, gripping tight to keep it in place. “Hey, I ate my brother, remember?” he answers as he swivels his hips around, probably trying to find a more comfortable position for his sore and leaking ass. “But honestly, out of all the crazy-town issues these guys are carrying around, this sexual tension is probably the least fucked up thing so far.”

Dean’s shoulders come up ambiguously, and he responds with an indifferent, “If you say so.” But he can already feel the suffocating memories of Dean start to recede, letting him breathe again as himself, letting him remember himself as _Leviathan_ , not human. He pushes up off the floor, gathering his clothes and helping his partner up, neither of them quite able to look the other in the eye.

It’s time to move on to Iowa, and he’s got a good feeling about this trip. They’ve been leaving not-so-subtle bread crumbs for too long, and he’s been itching to finally see the real Dean and Sam up-close and personal and preferably behind bars. But more than that, he really, _really_ wants to get himself an actual taste of Winchester. He just knows that this level of fucked-up madness is saturated deep in the boys’ brains, soaking everything with honey-thick sweetness that makes him salivate from just the thought of sinking his teeth into that soft, tormented Winchester flesh.

He’s always had a sweet tooth for the crazies.

As they head towards the door, he throws doppelganger-Sam a smirk which the guy tosses right back, awkward tension fading for the moment. He wonders how close they can get to Iowa before the urge to put on a repeat-performance makes them pull over and fuck this crazy, messed-up need out of each other again.

Sam goes out the door first, and as Dean’s eyes wander to trace the lines of Sam’s hips and ass, he feels the corners of his mouth turn up in a leering grin. Yeah, he doesn’t think they’ll make it very far.

**Author's Note:**

> Leviathan!Dean/Leviathan!Sam


End file.
